


Without Denouement

by slightlyjillian



Series: Without Denouement [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/slightlyjillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Well, he'd put the move on Trowa Barton. Quatre had been a surprise.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Without Denouement

**Author's Note:**

> fills #54 of my Nichol-100 fics challenge.
> 
> chronological order is different than posting order: Living Just to Breathe; Then a Sheer Drop; Without Denouement; Like Dominos, Falling Into Pretty Patterns; Where All the Pieces Fit. Personally, I like how reads as is: told out-of-order. *shrug* 

The edge of the paper was curled over from where he'd hastily shoved it into his over-the-shoulder satchel that held his laptop, several text books and an assortment of writing utensils amidst the other scraps of torn pages, napkins and receipts. Too much paper, but his searching fingers found the note easily. Unwilling to admit the intimate familiarity he had with the text, Trowa gave it brisk attention. His eyes barely read the words he had already memorized.

_Italy, huh? What pulled you to accept an offer in that God-forsaken country? Your sister, I'd bet. Anyway, haven't forgotten that I won beergammon. I want to finish what we started._

He hadn't signed it, but Trowa had found it on the hotel desk. Bed empty, except for his own blessedly limp limbs. He hadn't slept that well in years, the deep plunge into the unconscious after finding the furthest point of exhaustion. And love.

Trowa fisted the paper pushing it back into the satchel. If only he could remember the other man's name. Nathan? Nicholas? He definitely had met a Matthew, but that was the red-headed boatman who smelled like a fish tank.

He had been walking between campus buildings. The clock chimed the quarter hour as he found an empty bench and sat with his long legs stretched out across half of the sidewalk. Tipping his head back, Trowa watched the rapidly moving clouds.

Of course, one phone call to the right people could get the answer to that question. Who had been Une's first officer on Barge? Trowa had recognized the other man first when he'd stared up at the largest painting in the gallery and said, with ripe disdain, "Really?"

The scowl, thick knit brows, angular jaw and dark, curly hair. Those details Trowa knew and mirth had bubbled up in his throat as he watched the former soldier rubbing at the back of his neck. The edges of his collar were stained, his suit was threadbare along the elbow. The tie was too short. No woman would let her man in public like that and no man bothered to dress up in his only suit unless he cared just enough for what the gallery represented.

"You never saw HeavyArms, did you?"

The man stepped sideways giving Trowa a fixed look with one eye, the other winced. Lips pulled into his cheeks making a mock smile. "They'll let just about anyone into these things, won't they?"

Question for a question. Trowa leaned in to whisper, "I'm still working off my public service reprimand for terrorist acts during peacetime. So, guest appearances at public events are on the must do list."

"Ah, is that why?" He sniffed. "What are you wearing? No, I don't want to know. But it's a bit much, kid."

"Twenty-two."

"Then lets go drink." He pointed at the floor to ceiling, corner to corner landscape with the shadowed outlines of the five Gundams. "I need to get that out of my memory."

Trowa followed.

The evening had been memorable. Trowa had enjoyed swapping stories, although in the end he knew little about the other man.

A name.

_I want to finish what we started._

Trowa sat upright shrugging off his memories. Now was the present. Two weeks earlier, Trowa had turned twenty-seven.

***

Nichol adjusted the construction helmet and stared up at the metal skeleton of what was going to become a new school for the colony. He nearly missed the blur of movement behind his right shoulder and spun to the side just in time to catch the absentminded leader of their project.

"Quatre." Nichol hefted the slight man by his shoulders and held on long enough to make sure Quatre Winner was going to stay upright. "Don't walk and study the blueprints at the same time."

"So I'm told," Quatre chuckled nervously. His face flushed, but the lights in his eyes never seemed to dim even at his own disadvantages. Somewhere a drill started and Nichol couldn't say what he wanted to for all the noise that would snatch it away. They simply looked at each other until Nichol wondered what color his own ears were becoming.

Working with the Winner Foundation was better than the other options that Nichol had after the war. The Preventers didn't want him. Nichol hadn't bothered to read their logic past the first sentence of the formal letter. It had gone into the shredder. Fortunately, Nichol had his robotic skills and machines could be used to build as well as tear down. Quatre had been sympathetic and kept rehiring Nichol for additional projects until Nichol realized he hardly spent a day that wasn't in the younger man's company. Then the days had gone long into the evening.

"Let's get lunch."

"What?" Nichol said, loudly to be sure he would be heard. He knew what Quatre had said, but...

"Let's go to lunch." Quatre's voice carried more loudly and something squeezed Nichol's chest. It was like being caught in a snare.

Gundam pilots. Why did it have to be another pilot? If Quatre had only been another wealthy kid from the colonies maybe Nichol could forget one night in a hotel room.

***

Trowa hadn't seen anyone from the days of the Gundam War, intentionally. Of course, Catherine checked in on him around the holidays. But Trowa liked his classes on advanced mathematics. Most of them were web based and Trowa had to do little but set up coaching sessions and tally results. The students who dared to take his classes were usually top of the class and simply wanted to prove themselves and, potentially, earn a letter of recommendation signed by Trowa Barton.

In the shade of the cafe awning, he drank coffee from a petite mug and read a text on new biology found on Terra 2.

When his phone rang.

"Trowa, it's Quatre. Quatre Winner. I'm at the airport and our flight doesn't change for a few hours plus the gift shop is such a tourist trap--have you noticed? Gundam keychains? Ever since the gallery..."

"I don't usually hang out at the airport," Trowa responded, drifting into a sly but fond response. Only Quatre would call as if they talked all the time.

"Well, then you should. Because we weren't supposed to layover, but they had a weird patch of weather in Sweden." Quatre seemed as if he had no need to draw breath. "Then Nichol said something about you being local, so I thought I'd try..."

_Nichol._ Trowa set the porcelain cup down with a rattle against the plate. He found some coins to tip the waitress so she wouldn't need to take his bank chip to the back. "I'll take my bike. Fifteen minutes. Wait for me."

***

Trowa used his badge to gain access to the VIP parking. Then tried flirting with the girl at the desk to speed up the permissions on his security clearances. He crossed his ankles and leaned over the counter to look at the computer screen.

"That's me." He pursed his lips. "But what a horrid picture."

"We could take a better one?" She had thick lashes and knew how to use them.

"Sweet, but I have people." He pointed the door he wanted her to open.

"Yes, go. Here." Her fingers lingered on his and he smiled. He knew women. Loved being kind to staff and knew the rewards of being upfront about casual relationships.

The gift shop was large and bright, separated from the rest by a glass wall that twinkled with programed messages advertising the value of the desirable items inside. Trowa thought he saw a blond head when he was gripped from behind by two arms.

"This way." That voice became the voice Trowa thought he remembered, except it was real. So was the rush and the touch and the breathless connection in the privacy of a waiting room. Designed for guests who needed space and quiet and for a reasonable fee they could buy a couch to sit on. Or use.

"Nichol," Trowa said, pleased. Very satisfied.

***

They did not hold hands. And Trowa wondered how he should ask about more. He had what he wanted. Or thought he wanted. Or what he missed. Or thought he missed.

He strained to hold his head up. The couch was short and Trowa was long. His lips were dry and bruised and he focused on them because Nichol kissed him once more before doing up his suit.

"That's a lot better than the one I met you in," Trowa balanced on his elbows pulled upward as if strings tied him to the other man's movements.

Nichol sat on the very edge between Trowa's hooked legs. The dark head bent as he studied the cuff-links. They were polished shining brightly enough that Trowa blinked.

Then as if scales dropped from his eyes, Trowa saw that Nichol was brooding. It chilled the afterglow.

"Hey." He sat up, pressing against the expensive clothes. "It's still clean."

Nichol bent so that his head neared his knees. His fingers ran and stuck into the curls.

Trowa wanted to pull him back.

"I'm here with Quatre. He'll wonder..." Nichol stood, turning to look at the door with the timer. Twenty minutes at the start was only eight remaining. Trowa smiled to himself. Sometimes it was like that.

Then he shook his head. "Yes, Quatre. I haven't seen him in years. Still wearing pink, I suppose?"

"Sometimes." Nichol gave him a bemused look before dropping his shoulders with a relaxed slump. "He doesn't..."

Trowa put his finger to his lips.

***

Quatre worried over things because he cared, deeply, about them. So Nichol explained first, "Look who I found wandering around."

"Trowa." And Quatre was content and happy with that alone. The edge of lines around his eyes shifting from concern to affection.

Nichol had forgotten how to go after the things he wanted. Oh, he knew how to take. But he'd spent five years in space designing construction robots. His eyes unfocused seeing the colors of Trowa's olive complexion and the red-brown of his hair. Then blonde sunlight and pastels when Quatre got in between.

Quatre knew how to go after the people he wanted. "Let's get something to eat," he said brightly.

The booths were compact, fitting four people if they overlapped while sitting. Nichol dropped in next to Quatre. Trowa already had his long fingers wrapped around the cover of the menu. It would make sense to everyone around. Quatre didn't know. Trowa didn't know.

Nichol wasn't quite sure how he felt about the situation. Except that with Trowa things were impromptu, playful and quick. Little thought and boundless fun.

Quatre's kisses were sweet and long as if measured with a passion that would outlast the universe itself.

***

Trowa wanted to comment about Quatre's hair. It was so much longer, so that the ends curled into actual ringlets. And he did wear pink, except that the lavender vest was gone. Instead he had a smartly striped suit with intricate patterns on the lower layers. Next to Nichol's traditional attire they looked like the nontraditional couple for the top of a wedding cake.

He reread the description of the meal he wanted. He needed to stop thinking about relationships. Nichol was going to be on that same plane with Quatre and Trowa would be back in the house he rented with assignments to review. They weren't friends. It could barely be called an affair.

"Did I forget to leave the beer list?" The waiter pushed the eraser of his pencil into his lip.

Beergammon. Trowa chuckled. The night with a case in the hotel mini-fridge. The lines of text left by the bed. _I want to finish what we started._

Why was he letting Nichol set the pace?

Quatre was ordering and asking for the bill while Trowa reflected that until a few hours ago, he hadn't be sure of Nichol's name. But desire was beyond names.

Trowa had to be asked twice for his choice. He'd been indulging in a lengthy mental lecture about ridiculous expectations.

***

Nichol enjoyed listening to Trowa and Quatre talk, although he neglected the topic of their conversation to appreciate the cadences of their voices calling and replying. He set his face in his hand leaning over his elbow. Boxing Quatre in and leaning toward Trowa.

A voice in his head told Nichol that it was strange that those two weren't together. Quatre so very much wanting to give affection and Trowa definitely appreciating the gender of choice. Nichol would break them apart if they knew. He was the interloper that kept them from seeing each other. But he couldn't not want what he wanted.

Well, he'd put the move on Trowa Barton. Quatre had been a surprise.

Perhaps Quatre had known. Had guessed. Perhaps Quatre had sensed and chased the space Trowa had in Nichol's interests. But Nichol had never gone back. And Quatre wouldn't have let things... progress... if he had been thinking of someone else. He wasn't like Nichol.

Nichol twisted his head to look at the blond man in profile. He talked with his hands, even when hindered by the limited space from the booth table. Quatre shifted letting himself catch Nichol's look and his smile wavered.

Somehow, Quatre knew something.

Somehow, even more strangely, Nichol figured out the signs. How many years did it take for Nichol to know when Quatre was masking his own interests? But unhappiness? That never slipped. No one ever saw Quatre's inner serenity falter.

_I did that_. Nichol looked at his plate, pushed the remaining food into one corner with his fork, and started to shred his napkin into pieces.

***

The shuttle was air-born. The staff had issued all their warnings and refreshments. Quatre wished he'd taken the seat nearer the window. If he turned to look now, he would have to look past the buttons on Nichol's jacket. Ones that Trowa had undone.

Innocently. Trowa had been there first. Quatre tore his fingers from the arm rests and willed them still in his lap.

"What was that? Were you testing me?" Nichol asked. Then with a resentment. "Is this about him?"

Quatre knew somewhat about insecurity. Nichol bathed in it daily and wore it with a temper. Quatre recognized the fear in himself. Could he be good enough? Do enough? Give enough to make up for every mistake?

"I can't be him," Quatre said softly. He hoped it was enough. He could love and love and never be who Nichol wanted.

Nichol answered gruffly, "I want to finish what we started."

Quatre's suit twisted as the armrest was lifted then Nichol was grabbing at his fingers with awkward adjustments until their fingers interlaced.

"I just don't know how."


	2. Living Just To Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the first time, Nichol resisted Quatre's direction. "I don't like tea." "Okay. Then get back to work."_

The world was upside down.

Nichol looked below him and saw tall shining metal structures through wisps of clouds. The green of trees and grass was divided by the blue of water and the right angles of city drafted roads. The view disoriented him into a coughing fit. Squeezing his eyes closed, Nichol's body sank as if swallowed into the firm earth behind his back.

Behind? Oh yes. He was on colony.

Which explained the city dangling upside down from the sky above. As for the spikes of pain caused by every sound around him, that... Nichol grunted. He tested his limbs. Arms still bend at the elbows. Hands pressed into his temples. Then a darkness changed the patterns swimming behind his eyelids.

"Nichol?" The question was sweet. Not an ounce of accusation, deserved as it might have been. Nichol was drunk. On the job, drunk.

"Hey, Nichol? Are you alright?" The tenderness again. Only one person ever talked like that.

The broken man cracked a smile, but his eyes stayed closed.

***

Quatre Winner worked from a trailer. It was a very nice trailer, the air conditioning unit worked most days and on a colony with a malfunctioning environmental control system even having independent AC was a privilege of the wealthy. Not that anyone appeared to begrudge their project manager his small luxury. Quatre lived in the trailer on site. First one on the job and the last one to go home, because the site was his home. Until he moved on to the next Winner Foundation task.

Not that Quatre abandoned a design until it was completed: baseboards to doorbell.

The knock at the door was quick and determined.

"Come in," Quatre said. He kept his finger under the section of text he'd been reading so that he could find it again. His right hand balanced a pencil that needed sharpened as soon as he could find a free moment to do so.

The door stayed closed.

Perplexed, Quatre set the pencil down so it pointed to the same place he'd marked before. Two steps around the desk and two more put him at the door. The trailer was small. An office, bedroom, and kitchen with no walls or doors in-between just a polite change in flooring from carpet to tile to mark the differences.

The door opened nearly pushing into Quatre who'd gripped the handle from the inside.

"Whoa." Scott Nichol stumbled down a step so that he stared up at Quatre. "I came to apologize, but Daniels gave me the specs from yesterday and I thought I should hand them over to you."

A fistful of documents were shoved into Quatre's chest as if seeking absolution through the paperwork of indulgences.

"What? No. Come inside." Quatre stepped back making sure to leave enough room for Nichol to enter easily and refused to take the papers.

"I'll just leave them on your desk then," Nichol said, oblivious to the intent behind Quatre's words.

"Sit down," Quatre said. The tea kettle was still warm in it's cozy, so he poured a second mug. He kept the mug out in case... someone... stayed longer than to drop off a report. Anyone. It went back into the cupboard unused more days than not.

"It's not that I don't think you've been beyond understanding with my history and all... I didn't mean to show up like that. Drunk. Inebriated, I mean." The other man rushed through his words. He'd sat as directed, but kept to the edge of the seat with his legs awkwardly bent underneath as if he might leap up at any moment. "I should have called in. I could have hurt someone..."

"Yourself." Quatre smiled and put the mug into Nichol's obedient fingers. Nichol went cross-eyed looking at the rising steam. Quatre continued, "No, not even yourself. No harm, no foul. I think that's what I hear the kids saying these days."

"Kids? How old are you?" Nichol slipped, skepticism lifting into his tone. _A gruff, surly man_, as the crew described him. _Damn good at his job._

Quatre sat in his seat. The pencil had rolled off the page. He looked up to see Nichol covering his face with one hand.

"Twenty-three. It takes a lot more than that for you to lose your job here," Quatre said cheerily. "Try the tea."

For the first time, Nichol resisted Quatre's direction. "I don't like tea."

"Okay. Then get back to work." Quatre called after the hastily retreating figure. "Don't forget your papers. And... I'll expect to see you at the company picnic."

Nichol flinched, but settled on resigned. "Yeah."

The tea had sloshed leaving a ring on the desktop.

***

Nichol arrived ten minutes late. He'd taken public transportation to stop nearest the park where the Winner Foundation held the annual family picnic. With how many children could claim the same biological father, Nichol wondered why they bothered to invite anyone else. But the attendees were construction workers and gear guys like Nichol who maintained the robots. Slowly walking the distance to the park, he watched screaming children with outstretched arms chasing each other. Wooden tables were linked together into long rows. White plastic covers snapped in the breeze from the lake.

He didn't recognize a face. He squinted, doubting that he really knew any of his co-workers. The uniforms and protective suits all had names stitched along the chest pockets. Nichol's gaze drifted from anonymous shirt to anonymous shirt.

"Hey Scott!" A man waved. He carried a girl with pig-tails on his shoulders.

"Hey," Nichol replied with absolutely no confidence. He was ready to leave. The sound of voices and wind blurred into the uniform buzz of angry static.

"Nichol!"

That voice broke the tension with an indefatigable promise of acceptance. Nichol turned to see the wavy blond hair of Quatre Winner. His cheeks were flushed pink. Then Nichol noticed the apron tied around Quatre's neck and waist. He still held a metal prong from manning the grill.

"Kiss the cook?" Nichol read. "Really?"

"Hasn't worked so far." Quatre stammered just enough to confirm he wasn't comfortable with the attire. "It was a gift from the staff. As soon as I stepped out of the..."

"I see." Nichol made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Need any help? You're the only person here I even recognize."

Quatre's smile diminished a little, but struck Nichol as more sincere. "Yeah. These things can be like that."

***

The world was upside down.

But only briefly as the directionless colony light was eclipsed by Quatre Winner's smiling face. His lips couldn't close around the soundless laughter and his hands were on either side of Nichol's head. Quatre struggled just to breathe casually, his sparkling blue eyes squared onto Nichol's gaze.

The blond man gasped, "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Nichol grunted, "You weigh a whole lot of nothing."

"I didn't expect you to take off that fast," Quatre exclaimed.

"It's a race." Nichol shifted his gaze to the knot of fabric from the apron Quatre still wore. Obligated to wear the ridiculous gift. Obligated to participate in the three-legged race. Which worked out to obligate Nichol to partner with his boss in the same contest, since Quatre hadn't fired him or punished Nichol beyond mandatory participation in the company recreational event.

"I didn't know you'd try so hard to win. Didn't seem like..." Quatre pushed up on his arms, putting more space between them although he was still warm against Nichol's chest.

"I don't seem like a _Winner_," Nichol replied, dryly.

"I shouldn't assume," Quatre reflected. However a crowd surrounded them and arms lifted Quatre up and hands dusted off his apron. Quatre smiled and eased their concerns and reassured the victorious team wasn't disqualified while Nichol tried to untie the material that bound the two men together.

***

"Want a ride home?" Quatre offered.

They sat side by side with no one across from them. Nichol turned to look sideways and saw Quatre licking off the tips of his fingers.

As if caught, Quatre flushed a strawberry red across his pale nose.

Nichol shrugged, wiping his own hand on a napkin. "The corn on the cob was good," he said simply. "Family recipe?"

"No. We don't have any of those," Quatre said, flatly. Nichol watched the blush travel to Quatre's ears. Typically oblivious, Nichol didn't know how to define the other man's reactions. So he didn't try to.

Nichol shifted so he sat with his back to the table. Stretching out his legs, he groaned with a contented stretch. "No kidding? With, what does the news say, two dozen siblings?"

"I've only met three of them. Iria's the closest I have to a real sibling," Quatre said. Then with a renewed lightness, "Can you pull me a cold one out of the chest?"

Nichol reached for the cooler by his knees.

"I'll have what you're having," Quatre amended when Nichol first offered him a soft drink. Nichol raised his eyebrows. Quatre's gaze shifted to look at a stain on the table cloth, but he took the beer and drained half of it before explaining. "The party's over. No one thinks about what I do next."

They stayed silent for a while when Nichol asked, "You're one of the Gundam pilots. And a Winner. How is it that you don't have any paparazzi? Heero Yuy's always on the cover of some tabloid or something."

Quatre's laugh hiccuped short and skeptical. "Because I'm _boring_."

"With the right publicist and all the good that you're doing?" Nichol scoffed, but smiled at Quatre's wry expression with blond eyebrows lifting into his wavy bangs.

Nichol toasted Quatre with the can he'd been nursing most of the picnic. "Duo Maxwell's dating some pop princess. Wufei Chang wrote a book on these religious practices he grew up believing."

"I'm boring," Quatre repeated, stubborn and sharp.

"Trowa Barton's a professor in Italy." Then the atmosphere turned heavy, with an almost visible green hue settling over everything. Nichol drank then. He blinked rapidly to forget the snapshots of images and sounds and tangible memories connected with that name. His fingers tightened around the empty can with a satisfying, crushing sound.

"I tried to kill him once." Quatre's confident attitude was lost like an untied balloon.

"Me too." Nichol didn't like the shallow breaths. He didn't like Quatre's quietness either, so Nichol tugged on the apron where the fabric curled at the younger man's waist. "I should thank you for not firing me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Quatre said innocently. But his eyes twinkled again.

***

"You really live in this trailer?" Nichol said, hands on his hips looking up the short steps to the modest front door.

"Yeah," Quatre leaned heavily into Nichol's side, nose nearly in the other man's armpit. He hadn't drank that many beers so quickly in a while. The brief recounting of the other Gundam pilots didn't help his mood, but Nichol couldn't have known. Acid rose in Quatre's mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut willing himself not to throw up. Not just yet.

"Whoa." Nichol steadied them both as Quatre swayed on his feet. "Let's get you up these dangerous looking steps."

Quatre chuckled, but kept his lips closed just in case. He felt the temperature change as Nichol maneuvered them both into the trailer. His feet lifted sluggishly. At some point, Nichol had taken most of Quatre's weight as his toes seemed to float across the tiles. Quatre's hair lifted back from his face in a spinning motion. Almost as if the two of them were dancing.

Then he sank into the cushions of his bed. Shoes were being taken off and his feet lifted. Quatre may have dozed off when the phone rang. Rolling on instinct, Quatre lifted the audio-only receiver.

The man said, "Master Quatre."

"Rashid," Quatre answered automatically.

"We've confiscated all the photos from this afternoon and made arrangements with the networks to regulate the material released to the public. I'll have the originals sent to you, sir."

"Right," Quatre murmured. A blanket was arranged over him.

"_Enjoy your evening,_" Rashid's voice sounded strange.

"Mmm," Quatre ended the call. Then his eyes opened wide at the sound of his name.

"Quatre? I'll just go now," Nichol stood a few feet away, his feet back on the kitchen tiles as if that made things any better. Quatre put a hand to his forehead which was warm enough to rival the desert. That feeling wasn't only alcohol.

"I..." Quatre stammered. "I thank you." What was he trying to say? How did Nichol end up in the trailer? And himself in bed? "Thank you for..."

"Yeah, I got you." His voice sounded far away. The room was too dark.

"The light," Quatre trembled. Now everything was cold. "I need..." He had no words.

"Hey, you're alright. What do you need?" The voice was close again.

"I need light. I need the light left on."

***

Nichol wasn't sure what had happened at the picnic and when exactly _Kiss the Cook_ seemed to linger around Quatre Winner even when he wasn't wearing the foolish apron. Now, he found the young heir's typical and boyish grin broadcasted a peculiar loneliness. When others weren't looking, Nichol wondered if the slump to Quatre's shoulders was a weariness. If the long meals alone were isolation. What haunted him so much that he slept with the lights left on.

The lunch box fell onto the tabletop with a clunk. Nichol sat on the bench and took a long drink from his thermos. The outside was slick with condensation and felt good against his sore fingers. He'd spent most of the morning pinching small wires in the belly of the construction bot.

"Nichol?" Quatre sounded surprised. Not pleased. Not angry, never angry. That wasn't an emotion anyone got from Quatre often. But Nichol had heard Quatre slip into frustrated and stubbornness and vulnerability. From experience, Nichol figured he could handle angry too, if Quatre needed that.

"A guy's got to eat somewhere." He used more force than necessary to open the clasp on his lunchbox. He pretended to be preoccupied with picking up his apple or his sandwich as to not look at Quatre.

Quatre set down the documents he'd been studying, carefully putting them upside down with his fingers over them. "Okay."

Nichol bit into the apple as Quatre slid the glossy papers into a manila envelope. "What's that?" Nichol asked, nosily. Honest. He knew how to be honest. Maybe that's what Quatre needed.

"Pictures from the picnic." The seal was tied closed. Quatre lifted his eyes to meet Nichol's gaze. No smile, but not unhappy either. Nichol wasn't sure why, but something in him vibrated with pleasure to see that face on Quatre Winner. An opportunity to be honest with someone.

Maybe that was what Quatre...

Since when did he care what Quatre needed? Nichol swallowed, "Can I see them?"

Quatre tilted his head, "Maybe. Someday."


	3. Then a Sheer Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It's what you don't see in the pictures that makes the difference."_

Nichol hardly imagined that he'd be more _romantic_ than anyone. Let alone someone who regularly wore the color pink and drank imported tea from a pot wearing a knit sweater.

The weather on colony had been rather unbearable the past few months. Humidity became so awful by midday that Nichol swore he was swimming in the atmosphere rather than walking through it. The site was nearly complete. A few more inspections and Quatre was about to pull his trailer to the next property. Nichol was in Quatre's trailer with his seat directly underneath the air conditioning unit. He'd taped a piece of ribbon, pink, to the vent when the device had been cantankerously quitting. But that day, the end blew out steadily at an angle which tickled Nichol's ear.

"Have you read the paper?" he asked.

Quatre glanced up from the mountain of legal files that had been piling up as the project reached its close. He blinked a few times as if refocusing to the real world after staring at ink on paper for far too long.

"The newspaper," Nichol clarified. "Has a rather fascinating article exploring some uncovered issues in the Preventers program."

"Like what?" Quatre rested his cheek against one hand.

Nichol noticed the strain in Quatre's jaw. The younger man was missing meals. When Nichol insisted on taking meals together, in an effort to get Quatre to stop and eat, Nichol noticed that Quatre was quite good at pushing food around a plate.

"Like hazing of the new recruits. Apparently they don't have enough officers and the training is being overseen by the conscripted second years." Nichol folded the newspaper back to the front page and glanced at the picture under the headlines.

"We talked last year about how drafting from the countries with low participation was going to cause problems." Quatre reached for his fork and poked at a few of the green beans before spearing one. He set the fork down. "Heero would have taken care of that problem long before it started if they'd approved funding his budget to provide sergeants with proper salaries."

Quatre seldom talked about the other pilots. So Nichol tried to sound casual, "What stopped the cash flow?"

"Relena's politics are rather arbitrarily against anything Heero proposes," Quatre breathed a laugh. "All because he wouldn't propose to her."

"So they never...?"

Quatre shook his head. "Heero wouldn't."

"And how do you know that they never..." Nichol smirked, letting his eyebrows slide upward.

The blond man shifted upright rubbing two fingers along his chin and his eyes seemed to be looking inward. "During the first Gundam War, Heero and I were captured. Years ago now. Almost ten years... unbelievable." Quatre shook himself. "Anyway, he and I. Well, he told me. It happened that I was... well, Heero has a preference. He likes blondes. A certain blonde. Blonde girls, I mean."

Nichol nodded slowly, "Uh huh. Okay. Who?"

Quatre shrugged, pushing his arms straight against the desk and stretching his shoulders like a cat. "It doesn't matter. Relena wasn't her."

Quatre wasn't stupid. The conversation was over and Nichol wasn't going to learn anything more about Heero, Relena, blondes, or Quatre at that point. Nichol stood and put the newspaper back on Quatre's desk.

"I should go water my plant." Nichol thumbed toward the door. "It probably misses me. Thanks for letting me stay over."

"Sure." Quatre tilted his head up.

Nichol bent across the desk and their lips met briefly. Almost nothing more than a cultural greeting, or in this case, farewell. Expected. Normal.

Just not in public.

And nothing _more_.

***

Quatre listened as the roster for the next construction site was reviewed.

"Daniels is good for the next twelve months. Jake Friend's wife is pregnant, and he needs the insurance so we've got our primary cement guy." The assistant manager was a prematurely bald man who flew for White Fang. Quatre believed in second chances. He judged on quality and merit, not which side of the war a person had stood. The openmindedness spread quickly and over the past few years, he'd been able to keep several good builders. Some of them the best in their fields.

The man chuckled. He'd rolled the paper until he was near the end of the list. "And Scott. But we all figured he'd go where you go."

Quatre hid his smile, "Nichol. Don't let him hear you call him that."

"He does get prickly. Why is that?"

"It's his father's name. Our Scott Nichol is Junior. But don't get caught calling him _that_ if you value the life of your unborn children."

The Assistant Manager touched his nose. "Will remember. And let the lads and lassies know the same."

"Smart man," Quatre smiled broadly. Hearing a familiar ring, Quatre asked, "Can we finish this later? I've got to take this call."

When the trailer was empty again, Quatre extended the visual screen and greeted the familiar broad face of Rashid. "What have I done this time?" Quatre wondered, his smile shifting to match his slightly fearful edge. Rashid only worked for Quatre in one capacity anymore.

"We asked Space Honors to reassign their invitation to Quatre Winner and guest. The original announcement of your nomination was pointedly suggesting you ask Scott Nichol."

Quatre sighed, "It'll get harder to keep a low radar. Looks like everyone is seeing something. I'll be more careful, I promise. If you and I can figure out how..."

Rashid interrupted, "Master Quatre. At least you're not as reckless as before. The Maganac Corp is happy to see you happy, young sir. Why don't you admit this one is special to you?"

"Because he doesn't feel the same." Quatre dropped his voice so softly that he wasn't sure if he'd actually spoken the words.

"I hardly see how that's possible. The evidence of all those photographs..." Rashid's expression was irritatingly indulgent making Quatre more certain that no one in the universe would understand if the reason escaped his closest friends.

"It's what you don't see in the pictures that makes the difference."

***

"If you break his heart, I'll break your neck." Dorothy flopped back onto the spare pillow Nichol had found in his hall closet.

"And what do you call this?" Nichol grunted, rolling toward her and onto his side with nothing between them except miles of her white skin.

Dorothy put the back of her hand over her forehead. Her eyes narrowed at him. "Stress relief."

"Was I the stress or the relief?" Nichol asked, bitterly. He'd met Dorothy when she'd accepted Quatre's Christmas invitation the year before. Quatre had been surprisingly attentive to the young woman with clear blue eyes and a cruel slant of her eyebrows.

"Doesn't matter," Dorothy shrugged. Her cavalier attitude had been what attracted Nichol to her. She had made more than her fair share of mistakes over the years. As many people scowled at her upon recognition as did Nichol before he'd left the remnant of the former Specials. Only Dorothy had come from old money and her face had been on the television.

"It doesn't matter?" Nichol repeated. She was beautiful and she never left quickly. But he didn't care to touch her anymore. He kept his eyes on her face.

"No, because Quatre, for all his sweet acquiescence, _he'll_ be the one to make the move on you when he's ready. So don't mess it up when he does. Or I will kill you."

He moved back onto his own pillow. The bed was too narrow and their hips touched. The blades of the ceiling fan rotated slowly on no power. "I thought you'd forgone war."

"For Quatre, for _you_, I'd make the exception."

***

"She's one of my favorite people," Quatre said, still waving at the empty place where the colony shuttle had vacated taking Dorothy with it. Nichol reached up to bring that hand down, holding tightly and longer than he should until Quatre extracted his fingers from the grip.

"I'm glad she's gone," Nichol responded. His voice sounded strange and gravelly as if it had to climb out over broken glass.

Quatre studied his companion: the way that Nichol's eyes shifted along the floor as if following the zig-zag pattern of a shuffling insect, the way his nostrils pressed in as he unhappily snuffled once, and the tight press of his lips keeping in whatever he couldn't say. Quatre stepped sideways and kissed the down turned corner of that mouth.

Nichol didn't move except to let his dark eyes slide to the place where Quatre retreated. "What was that for?"

"Impulse." Quatre didn't know himself. "Some of us can't deny what we want when we want it. I get that."

"I suppose, as always, your Maganac Corp will cover up this indiscretion for you."

Quatre corrected, "For us." He held back reacting to the way Nichol inadvertently clutched at the front of his jacket as if his heart might stop. Quatre wanted to kiss him more and breathe warm life back into the places that had frozen in hesitation. Just like Nichol had done for him.

"I want to tell you..." Nichol started.

But Quatre welcomed the clunking chug of the next shuttle pulling into the station. "I think this is our transport." He changed the subject. Just then his cheer felt just as real as the sunshine. And if the sunshine was artificial, then Quatre would take what he could get.

***

Nichol knew that Quatre kept the Maganac Corp files in the lower left drawer of his desk. It seemed awfully low security for something that obviously took time and talent to keep out of the public eye. And the public loved stories about the Gundam Pilots. Hunted the pilots like social scavengers. Yet no one pushed Quatre Winner. Or if they did, they never found the bottom of Quatre's financial pocket.

The tea was still warm under the new pink knit cozy that looked like a lamb. A gift from one of the construction worker's preteen daughters. Quatre didn't know how to say 'no' but he had to use the hideous gift and then he would find the guy and talk about how much he enjoyed the ridiculous present.

Nichol sat in Quatre's chair. Looked at the closed drawer of evidence for all of maybe three seconds then reached down to test the lock.

It opened.

The first inches of space were hanging folders stuffed full but neatly. Behind those was an unorganized mess of papers, photographs and receipts all stuffed in as tightly as they would go. Nichol let his left hand tap against the tabs. They were dates. Most recent in the front. As recent as... the shuttle station.

Well, Nichol knew what was in there.

Further back, the date of the company picnic when Nichol first harbored the thought of wanting to kiss Quatre's obscenely pink mouth. Something he'd dismissed as random and unlikely. Until Quatre initiated the chance as calmly and as easily as if it was nothing new or different and still the most pleasant thing in the world.

Further back, the last organized section before the tight explosion of papers. Quatre had to be... nineteen... that year. Nichol tugged at the first envelope.

The first photographs were too dark to discern much more than a nightclub with arms, legs, naked chests, lights. Okay, so Quatre had spent an evening as an exhibitionist. Nichol flipped more quickly choosing to dismiss but yet cataloguing to memory the images of Quatre making out with random strangers. Almost all dark headed men, boys really, about the same age. His fingers snapped the images more quickly so they seemed to create movement, Quatre dancing. Arms.

Then color. The last picture in the bunch was a proper room, not a dance club. Even from the angle through a window, Nichol could discern Quatre's figure who sat in a fancy, most likely antique, chair violin under his chin. Eyes closed. Standing nearby playing flute was...

Trowa Barton.

***

"Oh yes, this." Quatre took the picture from Nichol. The others, he really had little memory of that night, were tossed around the desk. He'd come into the trailer thirsty for tea and time alone with Nichol. He knew the other man would try the drawer someday. Quatre had been okay with that. He'd wanted that. He'd left the whole thing unlocked hoping Nichol would find out on his own and now?

"I had no idea that Barton played... the flute?" Nichol laughed. Then he put his fist over his mouth before busting out into a proper laugh. Quatre chuckled nervously. He'd expected something else, but what? More curiosity about the Winner heir's provocative phase, perhaps? But Nichol always seemed to project enough worst case scenarios that Quatre's confessions were readily accepted.

"We both like music, which gave us a brief connection that wasn't Gundams and our mutual talent at terrorism." Quatre crossed his arms.

"So you two, did you hook up? I didn't see anything, but I figured..." Nichol let his gaze drop to his hands. This question was important to him. For some reason, the answer to it was... a space existed between them. A sheer drop in between.

Quatre shook his head to toss aside the line of thought. "He's not gay. Even though everyone made the jokes at the time..."

Nichol did look up then, his expression wide open, but Quatre didn't know what it _was_. For the first time, Quatre felt insecure in his connection to Nichol. He bent forward over the desk. Nichol kissed him. Obediently.

Quatre didn't move. He took a shallow breath and said, "Again."


	4. Like Dominos, Falling Into Pretty Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Isn't this the part where you give me sage advise and I nod in enlightened surprise?"_

Nichol rubbed his fingers into his eyes best he could with his face mostly smashed into the pillow. He noticed movement as the pink ribbon kicked away from the noise of the air conditioner kicking on. So that's where he was.

He rolled over, chagrined that Quatre had easily sprawled over most of the bed. A habit from sleeping in his _own bed_, afterall. The movement was enough for the other man to open one eye and manage a lazy grin. His arms were over his head, leg at an angle not unlike the hanged man on the tarot cards Dorothy liked to read.

"You are a prince." Nichol couldn't have blushed more at hearing his own half drowsy observation. To hide the emotion, he did what was most simple and kissed the quirking lips.

"No cameras in here," Quatre murmured, mostly a sound in his throat. "Do what you like."

Nichol's mind was thinking too many thoughts for his liking. His mouth only filtered by keeping it busy. Long and slow. Almost terrifyingly, stupidly, in love.

Quatre's fingers wound through Nichol's too long curls, which were easier to ignore when they weren't being gently tugged to full length.

"So, are we dating?" Nichol asked.

"No." Quatre released the hair and punctuated the reply with a kiss. "That was just sex."

***

The meeting with Relena in Sweden had gone peculiarly well. So well, that Quatre wasn't surprised when her publicist called the trailer phone with a list of new possible concerns connected to the Winner Foundation's bid to oversee construction of the Terra 2 climate control towers.

"Of course, we don't want to destroy the natural flora and fauna by too much tampering with the environmental conditions." Relena's face seemed void and contradictory to her pleasant tone. Quatre thought she would have done better to send a recording or text message. As it was, he was having a difficult time not heaving a sigh from all the political red tape. He kept his hands in his lap.

"What does the Foundation have to do to resolve these concerns?" Quatre inquired. He reached out to key a command code onto his spare communicator. More messages from Nichol. He leaned his temple against two fingertips which relieved some of the pressure building behind his eyes. Relena continued to talk, but her words were nothing but speculation and stalling.

"Perhaps if we included some of the Noventa team into the effort..."

"Who?" Quatre cut her off, sitting upright. He noticed that Relena glanced off screen before repeating the name, _Noventa._

The line was being recorded. Any accusations would be leverage against Quatre's bid and even the Maganac Corp would be hard pressed to work against the press power of Relena Peacecraft. What he wanted to say was _Why does everything have to be about Heero Yuy?_

But Relena wouldn't go out of her way to do Sylvia Noventa any _favors_. So why stall a reasonable project to add the Noventa name?

"Send over the new proposal and I'll look it over." Quatre noticed a third message from Nichol. None of them were about anything but business. Jake Friend's wife had a boy. The electrician had solved a problem with the wiring that was actually going to save them money in the end. Someone's spouse had brought food and was Quatre going to be in meetings all morning or would he be joining the minions?

Relena finished her formalities and left Quatre staring at his own reflection in the murky darkness of the view screen.

No time for lunch. He needed to review the project over and over until he saw exactly what Relena Peacecraft did.

***

"As much as I like having a sleep over where we're only sleeping and I'm not sure how you found out I liked Charlie Chaplin films, but Nikky. Why? Why are you here with me in this dank, subpar apartment building when you have a glamorous boyfriend to be... _you know_." Dorothy pulled her knees up to her chest, bare toes curling into the soft material of the couch cushion. She launched a piece of popcorn at Nichol and put two more in her mouth while she watched him. Waited.

"He's not my boyfriend," Nichol shrugged. Then to waylay her retort added, "So he says. You told me to let Quatre make the move. Well, he'd made the move and I haven't done anything where you have to avenge his honor." Then at a passing memory Nichol chuckled, "Well, not like he's as vanilla as you made him out to be."

Dorothy ate more popcorn, tastelessly unseasoned at her request. Nichol wasn't certain when he'd first considered Dorothy his _friend_ but she'd kept showing up even when her trips missed any opportunities to see Quatre at all.

"It wasn't what I expected," Nichol shrugged. "But he's like that, you know. All distant and distracted. Especially with the whole Terra 2 deadline approaching. He's got a debrief ledger that's _this thick_ in hard copy." Nichol made an exaggerated movement with his hands. "Of course, he can't trust anyone else to fact check the details or whatever it is that he does with that sort of thing."

Dorothy's jaw steadily chewed.

Nichol reached for his beer and didn't look at her after pretending to drink from what was an empty bottle. The movie was paused with a man wrestling against a blown open cabin door. He scoffed, "Isn't this the part where you give me sage advise and I nod in enlightened surprise?"

"I don't know, Nikky," she sounded melancholy. "By making these contradictory moves, maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

She shifted to lean against him. "Did that sound good enough? That's all I've got."

"Yeah, sure."

***

"Can I help you carry that?"

Quatre balanced on the top step. To his left, leaning against the not-so-clean siding in his not-so-clean construction uniform, Nichol stared ahead over his crossed arms.

"Yeah, I could use a hand." Quatre relinquished the box.

"You know there are dozens of really burly guys just over that ridge who would be more than happy to take a break and move this stuff out for you." Nichol observed. Even with the large box in tow, he tilted around to put a kiss into Quatre's hair.

"Dozens of sweaty, burly guys," Quatre joked. "Excellent."

"Your reputation, nonexistent as it is, would be ruined for sure." Nichol's humor was as dry as the unpredictable atmosphere. Quatre would be glad to get off colony. Even if he was a native to space, the idea of being one of the first teams on Terra 2 gave Quatre a dizzying spin of excitement.

"One sweaty, burly guy for me," Quatre quipped back.

"Yeah, about that." Nichol set the box with the others and they both looked back at Quatre's trailer. From the outside no one would know any different that the insides were gutted and barren. "I was wondering if you were ever going to fill me in on the plan you've cooked up for yourself."

Quatre couldn't miss the emphasis even for all the casual lilt and fake wide-eyed interest on Nichol's face. He didn't like how it made his stomach churn.

"What?" Nichol said, more softly.

Quatre pushed his head under Nichol's chin and hid in the shadows between them. Closing his eyes, he tried not to hear when Nichol said, "What a martyr. You never think, do you, to ask anyone else for help."

***

Trowa lounged in the patio chair, sunglasses balanced on his nose and he browsed the job listings until he heard a commotion in the street. Setting down his papers, he pushed into the house and crossed over to open the front door.

"Trowa Barton," Nichol smiled easily from midway up the flagstone walk. "I told your neighbor here that you were expecting me, but I think she's still a little skeptical."

"He's legit, Francie. Thanks." Trowa waved at the woman as he wasn't certain her hearing aid could catch his words. "Safe trip?" He asked, lifting a duffel bag with a weight that suspiciously indicated the older man packed more electronics than he did clothing.

"Uneventful. Dull." Nichol glanced around the foyer pointedly raising his brows at the artwork. "Really, Barton? I wouldn't pick you as the sentimentalist."

Trowa led the way through the hall and to the spare room. "If you're going to have a problem with my decorations, then you can go right back to the airport."

"No, no problem." Nichol followed. "It's just different than what I'm used to."

"I bet," Trowa waited while Nichol dropped his luggage and went around the quaint twin bed to see the view from the narrow window.

The other man turned back and shrugged, "I don't know what to say."

"It's not your fault, you know," Trowa adjusted a bench and sat down letting the wall support his back. "No one's blaming you for anything. We all know how Quatre is..."

"And how's that?" Nichol said with a flare of irritability. He made fists at his side and seemed to want to kick something, anything.

"You really do care for him, don't you?" Trowa noticed. He stood up again and changed tactics. "Take your time. Dinner is in tonight. Nothing too troublesome, but I think you'll find my cooking good enough."

He left with the door mostly closed behind him. Glancing toward the kitchen, Trowa walked the other way and took down the photograph in the front hall. He polished an imaginary smear with the edge of his sleeve. The five of them had been so young at the time of the publicity shoot, before they'd gone their separate ways. When finding a snapshot of Quatre became nearly impossible.

None of them had quite been normal after those experiences. He shouldn't have been surprised to learn Quatre was just as self-destructive as always.

***

The young woman gripped the locket around her neck as a small gasp escaped from her lips. The seats of the shuttle knocked about as the security screens lifted over the transport's windows.

"I'm sure this is all normal," Quatre reassured. "I read the logs from the first explorers to Terra 2 and unless they were exaggerating, the trip is quite like the simulators."

"I didn't put in my hours," she admitted. "You don't remember me do you?" She held out her hand.

"I know who you are. Sylvia Noventa." Quatre held her fingers until they stopped trembling then set his hand back in his own lap over the safety belt.

"And I know you. But you don't _remember_. Just as well, we all do things we wish we could take back," she chuckled. "We were such kids back then. Post war, pre-responsibility. All that weight and terror and unrealistic expectations--suddenly gone. To cut free from that, was... disorienting."

"Yeah, well." Quatre didn't know what she was talking about. He didn't care. The Maganac files were a pile of charred ashes outside a new school near an abandoned trailer.

"Two years." She seemed unable to stop talking. The shuttle groaned and creaked as if space were squeezing it into a smaller universe. "And they were so picky about this trip. No family members. The first colonists usually were family units, because of the time on planet. But Heero said the concession was a small price for my dream. He could wait."

Quatre made a sound. It was better than talking. Or thinking. He looked up at the ceiling of the long distance craft. The material was so close to his head.

"Two years," she repeated. Then, "Did you leave anyone behind?"


	5. Where All the Pieces Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Not thinking about things after that point. Let me have my happy ending dream, Barton."_

"I'm pretty sure the rest of the volunteers have gone home by now." Trowa Barton leaned in the doorway leading into the cathedral offices.

Nichol shivered in the breeze that banished the hard-won warmth from the antique space heater. "Did you stay up or are you just getting up?" Nichol glanced at the clock. Four am. He had lost track of time sitting at the desk.

"You know I can't sleep when you're gone." Trowa took off one of his gloves and picked up an open marker from the floor.

"Right." Nichol took the dried up utensil from Trowa's palm and absently put it in with the rest. Then he searched it out again and tossed it, with better aim this time, into the trash. Trowa crossed his arms along Nichol's shoulders and leaned forward.

Cheek to cheek, Trowa asked, "You won't reconsider?"

"Has anything changed?" Nichol kept leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the cool surface of the table top.

"No, I guess not." Trowa went back to the door. "I think you'll be better off if you do this. Regardless of the outcome."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Trowa shrugged. "You're always welcome back."

***

Nichol shielded his eyes against the sun and stared up the only sky scraper in the entire village. An eyesore in the otherwise quaint and rustic community, the structure proved yet again that Relena Peacecraft was a difficult woman to reason with. She wanted to live in the country, but had to have a multi-story corporate power house. Her personal television station managed all its work inside, exclusively. The concession for the architectural nightmare was that Relena had to consider local talent above outside hires.

"What's the plan again?" Nichol asked, glancing down and discovering that he'd lost his companion. Dorothy already had given their passes to the front guard and waved him over to the entrance.

"Let me do the talking," Dorothy leaned in to direct her voice somewhere near the top button of Nichol's winter coat.

"I thought there would be more blond people?" Nichol half pivoted.

Dorothy saw the same unlikely pink suit on a rapidly skipping office intern and raised her brow with a pointed glance. "You and blonds."

"Well, not always. One time..."

"Enough!" Dorothy raised her hand, reaching out with her other mitten to push the elevator button. While they waited she arranged the visitor badge to hang around Nichol's neck. "We agreed not to ever talk about each other's sex lives, yes? None of that half-drunk 'remember when you slept with so-and-so' or 'weren't we dumb'. I'm almost thirty and you're way past that. Acting likes adults now." The last came out in a sing-song tone.

The elevator chimed, then lifted them ten floors with the mild accompaniment of senseless music.

"Dorothy!" Relena Peacecraft greeted them, opening the door to her spacious office for them by herself. She air kissed Dorothy who breezed inside quickly. Nichol must have pulled a face because Relena merely glanced at him and didn't offer the same gesture . He was fairly certain he had never done anything to annoy the political giant. He certainly hoped he hadn't, because he needed her favor.

"I got your paperwork regarding your," Relena paused. "Friend."

"It came to me when I was thinking back to our time in Istanbul." Dorothy sat in one of the guest chairs opposite Relena's alarmingly pink desk. Nichol waited until Relena swiveled into her own before sitting down as well.

"I see," Relena said as if leveling her tone to address a room of elementary students. She organized a few leaflets of paper gathering them into a proper pile. "So you want to be on one of the supply transports to Terra 2?" She did look at Nichol then.

"Yes," he said simply. Dorothy recrossed her legs, naked up to her skirt. Nichol wondered how she wasn't freezing.

"He's very good with repairing robotics. Most recently he'd put in some maintenance work on the models given to amputees from the various Gundam wars." Dorothy glanced out a nearby window. "You know, the ones given out to low income children by the Sank Kingdom. They've all been falling apart and you can't expect orphans to pay for repairs."

"I'm glad to hear you've put your skills to good use." Relena slipped the papers into a folder then set her hands together. "But we've fully staffed those crews."

"He's more fun than Prague, too." Dorothy glanced at the ceiling. "I mean, responsible fun. Nothing like that vacation you took to Barcelona. Who went with you that time? It wasn't me."

"I might have a position in the spring next year," Relena said, firmly.

_Class dismissed_, Nichol gathered. He leaned forward. Dorothy swung out her arm and held him in his place.

Dorothy purred, "Not so fast. I think we might have miscommunicated. He's not going as staff."

"No?" said Relena.

"I'm not?" Nichol started.

"Valuable cargo," Dorothy chuckled. "He's going VIP. Sort of like that weekend you spent in Salzburg. If you get my meaning, Miss Relena."

***

"So you're stuck with me until then." Nichol slouched in the patio chair. A dainty mug rested on his stomach, balanced in-between his large fingers. Trowa drank too much espresso, but Nichol benefited from the indulgence.

"Let me get this straight." Trowa stretched over the awning covered table. He punctuated the words with his open hand. "You're on the last supply shuttle just before Quatre's tour on Terra 2 is completed? He'll be on the next ship back here?"

"You asking why I don't just wait?" Nichol chuckled. "No grand gesture in waiting. I'm going all out. No mistaking it for anything other than what it is. And," he added more somberly. "What if he didn't come back?"

Trowa raised his brows. "No kidding. So all in. Then what? Moving on?"

"Not thinking about things after that point. Let me have my happy ending dream, here, Barton," Nichol growled.

"Just checking. So you won't mind if I don't come back early from the Partake of the Pantheon festivities this weekend?"

Nichol laughed, "Is that what this is about? What is with you and hooking up with random strangers at social events?"

"I've met some of my favorite _strangers_ at this sort of thing," Trowa said with a measure of wistfulness.

"And what does Catherine have to say about that?"

"I think she secretly wants illegitimate nieces and nephews." Trowa stood taking Nichol's empty mug with him.

"Just watch. Then she'll talk you into making them legitimate."

"See, you _do_ know Cathy pretty well."

***

"Really, Barton, do you need to forget your keys every morning. I don't know how you could. This hunk of metal is ridiculously overstuffed... oh. Hello?" Nichol stood in the open doorway under the dark blue appraising gaze of someone he'd not seen for nearly fifteen years. Not in person, anyway.

Heero Yuy had grown up handsome. Nichol could briefly sympathize with Relena's obsession.

"Trowa's not back yet," Nichol said. The world seemed out of focus. He knew that Trowa kept in touch with the other pilots, except Quatre who'd effectively sunk into a black hole of isolation. But his roommate usually did a better job of warning Nichol about guests.

"I came to see you." Heero's voice carried quietly and Nichol again had to reevaluate his long standing notions regarding the war veteran. Heero Yuy was bashful.

They stood in a quiet bypass until Nichol mentally pinched himself. "Sure, okay. Come in?"

"Thanks." Heero made it three steps inside when he seemed uncertain again. "I hear that you're on the next transport to Terra 2."

"That's right. Do you want to sit down?" Nichol pointed into the small living room. He led the way inside and sank into his favorite seat. Trowa liked it too, which led to a few mad dashes to capture it first when they were in the mood. Nichol noticed that Heero looked as if he'd be uncomfortable sitting _anywhere_.

"Would you take a message to Sylvia Noventa when you go?" Heero produced a small electronic storage device. "Her last message to me rather urgently insisted that I go to her, but you may know that access to Terra 2 is filtered through..."

"Relena Peacecraft." Nichol made a sympathetic sound. "I think Dorothy used a half dozen favors to secure my seat."

"You understand," Heero shifted. "I don't like not going, but if you can take my words to her. The supply shuttle will inevitably carry this faster and more reliably than my other options."

"No problem." Nichol took the device. Looking at it thoughtfully, he added, "I've been packed for weeks. Nothing worse than being stuck dirt side when... well, the person you want to be with is on other dirt."

"Quatre," Heero stated matter-of-fact. Then he smiled. "Once, after a mission..."

"Are you thinking about that time you were captured _after_ Barge?" Nichol interrupted.

Heero's eyes widened and his grin expanded into a brief littering of laughter. "He told you?"

"Enough that I didn't need him to explain any more." Nichol sank back into the seat, surly under Heero's sparkling demeanor.

"Does he still like it if you hold him down..."

"Enough of that! And I was about to like you, Yuy."

"He lied to you." Heero shook his head. "Or perhaps he let you think the wrong thing. Draw the wrong conclusions... he either needs to be in absolute control or he breaks things like a blunt weapon."

"So?" Nichol pressed for an answer, peering at the Asian man from under the hand at his brow.

"He was angry. I didn't accept his advances. Now it's only a memory," Heero shrugged. "But he does need the person he loves to nail his feet to the ground. Hold him down until he stops struggling."

The world came back into focus for Nichol. "I'll keep that in mind."

***

He'd had too much time to read every article he could about Terra 2. He doubled his time in the simulator. Heero's message chip was in his travel bag as were a half dozen others of his own. He checked the first one in transit...

_I feel like a fool talking to myself. So you're going to have to listen. Quatre, I meant everything I said in that shuttle to Sweden. I'd say it again and forever if you..._

He didn't have to listen to more. Nichol had paced the room he'd borrowed from Trowa pouring every conversation he'd wanted to have with Quatre into the recording device. Quatre didn't need to listen alone. Heck, Nichol would recreate them all over again face-to-face. Readily. They simply needed delivered.

"Check your colors, sir?" The Terra 2 worker at the port was an hefty woman with stylish glasses that reminded Nichol of Colonel Une.

Nichol patted his front pocket where the atmosphere detector was located. "I'm good."

"Thank you, and welcome to Terra 2."

No one else was at the platform. Nichol had sent advance warning, but Heero's precaution had been wise. Communication between Earth and Terra 2 was pony express at best. He waited in line at the reception desk. The next Terra 2 worker was busily checking supplies from a clipboard. Everyone had a job. Nichol was a tourist. So he waited patiently.

"I have a message for Sylvia Noventa. Or could you tell me where I might find Quatre Winner?" he asked.

"Easy enough," the staff-man spared a smile. "They're at the cabin by the nursery."

"You're all green thumbs here," Nichol chuckled. "Can you draw me a map?"

"Green thumbs?" The man blinked a few times. "Oh, not that kind of nursery. Syl wanted to be close to the nursery for the baby. Children, sir."

"Her baby?" Nichol repeated. Terra 2 was forty degrees warmer than the temperatures at Trowa's home, but Nichol hardly noticed for the chill that settled over his spirit.

"Yes, sir. I can draw you a map."

"Thanks." Nichol was distracted, counting months in his head.

***

Quatre answered the knock. Upon seeing the man for the first time in almost two years, Nichol dropped his luggage and changed tactics. He grabbed the front of Quatre's shirt and bullied the lithe body into the cabin. A wall broke his charge, and Nichol forced their traditional greeting. Quatre didn't relax, but he kissed back.

"Oh, _oh_..." Quatre alternately clutched at Nichol or pushed. Finally, he shoved away. "What the hell?"

"This place seems nice." Nichol took a long deep breath, hands on his hips and surveyed the four walls seeing nothing noteworthy in the dim light.

"I-I, it is."

Nichol couldn't pretend not to love that familiar, long missed stammer. "Damn it, Quat. Could you not write a guy a letter? Give me some clue things had changed? Sylvia had the decency to message Heero. But if you're gonna run away..."

"Hold on." Quatre stepped further to the side, holding up a hand. "What are you talking about?"

"I know it's biological and all, this reaction between us. But I was pretty damn sure you were absolutely gay last time I saw you."

"Gay?" Quatre's eyes flashed in surprise. "I have no idea what... what are you _doing here_? Nichol. _Nichol_..."

Somewhere, a crying started. Nichol had prepared himself for that much at least on the walk over from the shuttle drop.

"I've got to..." Quatre panicked. "Don't. Move." He ran from the room.

Nichol let out all the air from his lungs and rubbed at the wet in his eyes. Now that he was alone, the purpose for traveling all the distance, the efforts they'd all sacrificed on Nichol's behalf seemed wasted.

Quatre returned bouncing a red-faced child in his arms.

Nichol pointed, "That's not a baby."

***

"I abused a lot of privileges in order to make the deadline that Relena had given to me," Sylvia Noventa explained sitting on the couch in the two room cabin she shared with Quatre. "I skipped the sims and skipped most of the mission medical requirements that weren't vaccinations."

"And some of those she took on the shuttle," Quatre recollected. He poured tea into three mugs. Leaving the chipped one for himself, he handed one to Nichol. Then as the familiar hand took the cup,Quatre remembered, "You don't like tea!"

"It's okay. I'm thirsty." Nichol met his eyes briefly, then looked away at the child folded in Sylvia's arms. "Just tell me, am I drinking Terra 2 product here?"

"Not yet, this is from my stash from colony." Quatre sat in the only open seat next to Sylvia on the couch. It put her between them, but Quatre could still look all he wanted and it had been a long two years.

"So this..." Nichol made more movements with his lips but nothing came out.

"I was pregnant," Sylvia said as if it still surprised her. "Of course, I sent messages to Heero but it doesn't sound like he got them. Or liked them..."

"He has no idea," Nichol interjected. "He would have been here if it had been at all possible. He even came to see _me_ to make sure you heard from him as soon as he knew... well, all he knows is that he's trying to get up here."

Quatre heard the last words and looked at his feet. He wasn't sure how he wanted to feel. Part of him was surprised, certainly. But was the uncomfortable feeling resentment, hurt or disappointment? And were they directed at Nichol or himself?

Sylvia reached out and squeezed Quatre's wrist. "Quat's been an unbelievable help to me. He made sure we rushed the put-up dates on facilities for family support. We can't travel back to Earth until Junior is twelve. The other families had signed on full disclosure, but... _surprise_."

"Wait, what's his name? What do you call him?" Nichol asked pointedly, staring at Quatre.

"Quatre helped with that too," Sylvia explained. "I didn't want to name our son without Heero's input, but we had to call the little guy _something_... so Quatre suggested Junior."

Nichol's scowl was fierce but had absolutely no anger behind it. Quatre knew he'd been found out.

"Junior, huh? Quatre?"

Sylvia glanced between them. "We can go play for a while. Want to play with toys?" she asked her son, carrying him out of the room and politely closing the door behind her.

Magnets. Quatre would swear they couldn't diminish the attraction that pulled them together. He'd never had that particular view of the cabin from half-on and half-off the couch. Nichol crouched over Quatre pulling them close, holding onto Quatre but pinning him down all the same.

"You and I have some catching up to do," Nichol promised.

"I suppose." Quatre shivered as he remembered what Nichol's promises entailed. "But you should know that the walls here are paper thin."

"Fair enough," Nichol kissed him. "But we _are_ going to finish what we started."

***

_Without Denouement_ ends.


End file.
